Beating the Odds
by Yilantri
Summary: Currently on hiatus until further notice. Many apologies. I've not abandoned it completely!
1. May I Please Speak To Simone?

AN: Hello, everybody! I got this idea while gawping at the gargantuan cruise ship currently loitering in the Port of Seattle. I'd been trying for a while to write something PotC-related, but it just wasn't working out. I was completely aghast at the number of lame, sappy PotC stories with personality-deficient female original characters(aka Mary Sues) who, surprise surprise, end up with Jack Sparrow. Zounds, I was disgusted. Sheesh. Well, this is somewhat in the genre of A Loss of Authority, meaning that it's probably accidentally slightly AU, the writing is less than excellent, and is rather silly. Also, I have absolutely no idea where this story is going, so be forewarned: it may wander about a bit. Oh, and by the way, there is no Ocean Blvd. Being geographically impaired, I made up a street name. Sue me. This chapter's a bit useless, and is really just stalling for time. Avery is a character in an original story I'm working on right now, but so far he doesn't have any significance in the story yet, as far as I can see. Then again, my plans are a bit hazy…which often means nonexistent. Ta! 

Disclaimer: Must I? …OK. I *sniff* do not own *sniff* Pirates of the Carribean. *copious weeping, sobbing, wailing, etc.* Go ahead! Rub it in! 

Chapter 1: 

Simon Donaghy sifted through his 'mail', sighing dejectedly. There was always loads of it, which, on the surface, could be considered quite flattering (and indeed, a sign of a high and busy social status) yet it was more depressing than encouraging to find that every single white envelope was addressed to 'Occupant'. 

He opened the first one, and read the first line. "Cardholder, you have shown the financial responsibility and sound fiscal planning to become a Gold Mem—"

Rrrrrrrip. 

That one hit the trash. 

He opened the second envelope. 

"We would like to inform you that our interest rates are—"

Rrrrrip. 

The credit card offers descend into recycled oblivion. 

He got a certain degree of satisfaction from that sound. 

He went through the pile, as envelope after envelope went sailing through the air to join the previous junk in the prime location of the recycle bag. At last he reached the last one, a small, thin white envelope, just like the others, and he almost tossed it in the trash without a glance, but something stopped him. Glancing at the front, he gaped. It was addressed: 

Mr. Simon Donaghy

144 Ocean Blvd. 

Seattle, WA

98109

_Wow, _he thought, amazed. _Personally addressed to me. God save us. _He was about to open the astounding document when the trill of his remote phone filled the room. He jogged over to it and picked it up. "Hey, Simon here. Who is this?" 

"Guess," came a sarcastic alto voice over the phone. 

"Liana! I wasn't expecting you to call this early. What's up?" 

"Nothing much, really," replied his girlfriend, sighing. "Just browsing the Web. Looking at P—random websites. You know. The usual eclectic collection." 

Simon rolled his eyes. "Don't think I didn't notice that slip. Let me guess—you're gazing worshipfully at Pirates of the Caribbean fan sites again. Pictures, probably. Am I right?" 

"It was fanfiction, actually," replied Liana defensively. "And anyway, you have to admit—"

"Don't even go there," warned Simon. 

"That Jack Sparrow _is, _without a doubt—"

"_Be quiet or face certain death._" He shook his head helplessly. Liana's obsession with Pirates of the Caribbean was reaching something of a disturbing level. She had seen it in theatres five times, and spent the rest of her free time conversing about it with her fellow obsessives…Simon actually loved the movie, but admitting that to Liana would be the absolute worst thing to do, as then she would bombard him with even more e-mail forwards of countless photos of everyone's favorite protagonist. Watching it left him with a strange desire to whack people with swords, which was not entirely unpleasant. "Lia, d'you really think that it's smart to be saying this to the person you're _going out with?_" he said wistfully. "I mean, if you're going to date a movie character, that's probably going to interfere with _our _relationship…" He knew this phrase would tick her off, as she'd used it about how much time he spent out sailing with his older sister Katie, who was obsessed with sailboats and kept dragging Simon out onto her new finds. Liana had half-accused him of incest. He smiled at the memory. 

"Oh, stuff it," she retorted. "Let me obsess as I want." 

"Fine," said Simon, "I surrender. Obsess all you please." 

"Oh, good!" replied Liana eagerly. "Hey, um, therefore…d'you think that you'd like to accompany me on a trip to the movies this Saturday?" 

Simon groaned. "Dear God, Liana, please don't tell me it's to go see—"

"Here's a sample of the wailing that's going to commence if you don't come with me," announced Liana. "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE---"

"Gyaaah! Stop! I'll go! I'll go!" 

Liana could wail like a banshee. It was very disturbing, and also ideal for blackmail. 

"Oh, yay!" said Liana happily. "Rapture! Thanks! It's playing at about 3:30pm for a matinee. Shall we go then?" 

"Whatever," said Simon, defeated. He heard the familiar beep that meant someone was on the other line. "Sorry, Li. I gotta go." 

"OK! Ta!" She hung up. Simon pushed the 'phone' button. 

"'Lo?" 

"Hello…can I speak to, um…" The light female voice sounded hesitant, unsure. "Simone?" 

"I'm sorry, there's no Simone at this number," said Simon politely, and hung up. Principle of phone calls: Whenever they mispronounce your name, it's a telemarketer. Hang up immediately. He sighed and was about to go make some frozen pizza when he remembered the envelope on the table, and turned around. Opening it, he saw the single folded sheet of white paper, unfolded it, and stared at the flourished cursive type proclaiming 'Caribbean Sweepstakes Offer!!!" 

_Ah, so that's it. _Sweepstakes. Why not? He scanned the paper. 

Win an all-expenses paid, four-week cruise in the beautiful Caribbean! Just send in this easy to fill out form and you are eligible for the trip of your lifetime! If our sponsor, the HG Corporation, draws your name on August 27, 2003, you will receive a letter of congratulations letting you know the details of when and where to start this terrific vacation. And the best part is, this offer is FREE!!! We've enclosed a Business Reply Mail envelope so you don't even have to pay postage! What are you waiting for! Enter the Caribbean Sweepstakes now!!

(Only available to contestants over 18. Odds are approximately 1, 994,130 to 1. Caribbean Sweepstakes ©2003 HG Corporation. All rights reserved.)  

Below was a perforated entry form, asking for Simon's name, address, birth date, etc.

_Whatever…_Simon thought about it. Living in Seattle, he could certainly use a climate change. _Although, _he thought, holding up a magnifying glass to the fine print, _the likelihood of actually _winning _is…ah, what the heck? _He quickly filled out the small form and tore it off, stuffing it in the supplied envelope. As he walked outside to put it in the mailbox, he heard a crash of thunder from far off, and glanced upward to see dark, ominous clouds moving in. 

"Damn Seattle," muttered Simon as large raindrops began splashing onto the pavement. He opened his mailbox, stuck the envelope in, and closed it with a loud _clang, _then ran back inside to avoid getting soaked. 

-*-

Later that evening Simon was out eating pizza with his friend Avery, moaning about his college professors. 

"So now Hackett's decided that, with the start of a new year, she wants to make all the undergraduate students feel _welcome—_and her method of doing this, of course, is to load on a wonderful huge essay on technology's effect on culture. I mean, I don't know if she thinks the school counselor's not getting enough work or what, but I'm telling you, more than one person's going to have a nervous breakdown before this class is over…" 

"I hear you," said Avery sympathetically. "University is brutal. You should have done what I did, man." 

"Which would be?" 

"Skip the school crap and go entrepreneurial, you know? _In-_de-_pend­_-dence!" He got the inflection of their old high school principal so perfectly, Simon had to laugh. "I mean," Avery continued, "there's ah, more interesting things to do—"

Simon shook his head ruefully. Avery's 'entrepreneurial' endeavors weren't always exactly legal. Last time he heard, the guy was planning to plant a virus somewhere in Microsoft's system. "Nah." He shrugged. "I'm not quite sure where I'm going with this college thing, but I met Liana there, so it can't be half bad, right?" He grinned. Avery was perpetually without a girlfriend. It wasn't so much that they left him, but that he couldn't persuade himself to stay with the same person for more than two weeks. He had low tolerance for stability. 

"Aaaaagh," groaned Avery, shaking his head vehemently. "Don't talk to me about women. In my opinion—"

Simon never did find out what Avery's opinion was, as just that moment his cell phone rang, treating the local Pagliacci's to a tinny version of 'Tequila'. "Hold that thought." He rolled his eyes and answered. "Hello?" 

The voice was agitated and sharp, and sounded like it was coming from far away. "May I speak to Simone, please? Now?" 

"There's no Simone at this number," replied Simon, annoyed. "Goodbye." He pushed the 'end' button and stuck the cell phone back in his pocket. "Second time today." 

"Simone?" Avery hooted. "Ha! Sad!" Just then _his _cell phone rang, with a high-pitched screeching whistle that made Simon's ears ring. "Ah, crap. Hold on a sec. Hey, Avery here, what do you want." 

Pause. 

"No." 

Longer pause. 

"Must I?" 

Short pause. 

"Oh, all right, fine. You owe me for this." He hung up and smiled apologetically at Simon. "Sorry, I've gotta go. Dmitri's begging me to go help him move his crap into his new apartment." 

"Ouch," commented Simon. "That's brutal. Is he paying you?" 

"No…" Avery grinned in a rather evil manner. "However, I've got something in mind…" 

Simon felt sorry for Dmitri. "'K. Catch you later." 

"Adios, amigo." 

Avery got up and left, making a suggestive gesture at a shocked elderly woman before making a casual exit out the door. Simon laughed, finished his pizza, and stood up to leave, but not before his phone rang again. 

"'Lo?" 

"Would Simone please come to the phone?!" said a frustrated voice over the phone, sounding exasperated. "Now?" 

"Gyah! No!" yelled Simon into the receiver. "Take me off your list!" He jammed the phone back into his pocket and threw up his hands. "What does it take to get these people off my case!" He quit the building, leaving a few confused expressions behind him, and one knowing smile. 

"Those telemarketers," agreed an ancient man with spectacles, turning back towards his granddaughter. "Mark my words, Natasha, I'm not going to let your mother buy you a cell phone when you're older. It's just another way to get accosted." 


	2. Escape Velocity At Last

AN: Greetings to everyone! I admit, I am slightly apprehensive that people are getting warned away from this, because the concept of someone entering the fictional Caribbean is a victim of overuse, and much abuse, to be honest. People like to insert themselves into the story and go ruin certain people's character, I know. Be assured, I hate 'em as much as you do. Despicable, I say. So, before I commence thanks to reviewers-

Tanuki Yasha: Thanks! Wow, you're perceptive! Yes, the telemarketer does have some significance…although I haven't really worked out what significance they have yet, though…I'm just improvising. I'm in NO position to make fun of you, as I just found out a month ago that pipe cleaners were actually used to clean pipes. Go figure! O.O Merci!

Roux: Thanks! Hey, I like being watched over the Internet. It's the real-life stalkers I can't stand…Of course I'll keep going!!! Oh, and by the way, I really like your stories that I've been reading…good stuff…

lem68: Sticking to the point is good. Glad you like. Approval is encouraging. 

Sara: Well, I'm keeping going. If it turns into something, let me know, k? 

Mythical Assassin: YAY! I'm so glad you agree it's not typical, I was trying to keep it that way because the concept _is _cliché, I admit. But there will be no Mr. Mary Sue here, I assure you. And Simon is NOT falling in love with Jack. YUCK. That's just…ugh. I mean, slash has its time and place, I suppose, but NOT here. Plus, he DOES have Liana, and one of her reasons for existence is so that Simon _doesn't _get in any romantic involvements with PotC characters…thanks for reviewing! You're special! ^^

And, to let you know, there is going to be very, very, little romance in this story. None if I can get away with it. I mean, of course, there's always the obligatory Will/Elizabeth sap but that's being kept to a bare minimum, and I assure you that Captain Jack Sparrow will never, ever, ever, get in any sort of love with anyone in this story, so don't look for it. I mean, come on, the closest love interest implied is his ship, for God's sake. (I refuse to acknowledge the Anamaria thing. Not out of jealousy, but because she doesn't really have much of a personality…) 

Oh, and the way Simon acts at the beginning of this is reminiscent of me in the morning…

Anyway, thanks to all reading, and now I'll shut up. 

Disclaimer: Sure, I own Pirates of the Caribbean. And all the characters. And George W. Bush graduated magna cum laude. 

Come on, people…

Chapter 2: 

_4 weeks later…_

"Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. _Beep. Beep. Beep._" 

"Aaaaah, damn. Shut up, you freaking—"

"BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEE—"

Crash. 

The alarm clock would never beep again. 

Simon stood up groggily and looked down at what used to be the alarm, now pieces of cheap plastic littering his bedroom floor. "Crap," he said matter-of-factly, shaking his head. "I didn't mean to do that." He threw the remains into the trash, andered out into the kitchen, and squinted as he switched on the overhead light. "Augh…ouch…" He blinked several times and glanced around the room. Food. Right. He popped some bread into the toaster and looked at the clock. 10:oo AM. Unlike Liana, who liked to get up at 6 and go out bicycling on the Burke-Gilman trail, he wasn't much of a morning person, and would have slept until noon if not for the alarm. Reflecting on the situation, he realized it was pretty pathetic that he had to set his alarm for any time later than 9, but no matter. He was about to go change out of his pajamas when there was a loud knock on the door. 

"Package for Donaghy! It's UPS!" 

He winced at the loud voice. "Um…hold on a sec!" He quickly changed into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and jogged to the door, opening it. "Hey, Angelo," he greeted the black-haired man in the UPS uniform. Angelo always delivered to his house, and Simon had finally asked his name sometime during the Christmas season after seeing him five times. "How's it going?" 

"Aw, pretty good," replied Angelo, grinning. "I finally got a date with Yvette." 

"That's great! So, what's it today?" 

"Oh," Angelo said, handing him a large cardboard square box wrapped in brown paper, and checking his clipboard. "You have to sign for this package. It's from…" He squinted. "The…it looks like HG Corporation? Something like that…sent you something." He extended the clipboard. "Got a pen? Sorry, Robert took mine…" 

Simon put the box down and took the clipboard, running inside and grabbing a pen, wondering what this package was. _HG Corporation? I don't think I…_

_Wait a minute! _

He signed the paper in a messy script, acknowledging that he'd gotten the package, and handed it to Angelo. "Here." 

"Thanks," said Angelo. "See you around!" 

"'Bye," called Simon, as Angelo hopped into the UPS truck and drove away. As soon as it was out of sight Simon shut the door and picked up the brown box, looking at it curiously. Sure enough, the return address said, 

HG Corporation

21568 13th Ave. 

Facsimile, NY

12569

Strange. He didn't know there was a town in New York called Facsimile. Weird. Again, it was addressed to him, which still was a rare occurrence. He tore off the brown paper, opened the box and found two things: One, a business-sized envelope, and two, a small metal box with a keyhole, which he found was locked. 

Weird…

He opened the envelope, not daring to believe the suspicion growing in his mind. _You don't think…_Nah, no way. You never really win this kind of thing; nobody does. I mean, the odds are a million to one…

But: 

_Congratulations!!! You have won an all-expenses paid cruise to the Caribbean! Enclosed is your ticket, which will allow you passage on our newest cruise ship, the Caribbean Princess. _(Gag.) _This is a four-week cruise, and remember, it's COMPLETELY FREE!!! Arrive at Pier 99 at 6:00 PM Pacific Standard Time on September 26th, 2003. A helpful member of the cruise staff will give you any additional information that you will need to make your vacation as pleasant as possible. Remember, pack for all weather, and bring a camera! __J__ We here at the HG Corporation wish you a wonderful trip! _

            Simon shook the envelope and a ticket fell out. 

            He stared at it for a second, and then…

            "YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!! Yes! No more Seattle! YEAH! All right!" 

            Simon's jubilant (and exceedingly loud) exclamations of joy reached all the way to the apartment building next door, causing a forty-year-old man to mutter about young people these days, the janitor to sigh wistfully at the prospect of leaving the Soggy City, and an elderly Mrs. T. Plotkins to drop her knitting in surprise on the cat, who yowled and cowered underneath the soft leather chair. 

-*- 

After Simon had calmed down (which took about twenty minutes of prancing about the house in happiness—note, Simon was never a particularly hyperactive person, but for a Seattleite to acquire a means of getting to somewhere even rumored to have decent weather was somewhat akin to winning the lottery) he reread the congratulatory letter, and noticed something odd: It didn't mention the locked box, which he still couldn't get open. Picking locks was not one of his strong points, and though he suspected Avery could do it, said person was currently in Olympia protesting something related to freedom of expression, which Simon highly doubted was very political. The letter was unusually short, and although Simon didn't have any experience in this sort of thing, he would have thought there would be more advertising involved. He shrugged. _Who cares? I'm going to the Caribbean! _He checked the calendar and realized that September 26th was only four days away. Logically, he recognized that he should be packing. Realistically, he decided the first thing he would do was call Liana. He picked up the phone and punched out her number. 

"Hello?" came Liana's voice over the phone. "Who is it?" 

"Guess," said Simon, grinning. 

"Simon! Hi! How're you doing? I was just thinking about you." 

"Really?" Simon was pleased. "Sure you weren't thinking about a certain pirate character?" he joked. 

"Nah," sighed Liana. "I do have some concept of reality, you know." 

"Wow!" 

"Hey, stop it. Anyway, were you calling for anything in particular, or did you just want to hear my sexy voice?" She laughed. 

"I would call for that reason any time, dahhling, but I just thought I should let you know something…" 

            "What's that?" 

            "I'm going to be gone for four weeks." 

            "What?! That's dismal! Where are you going?" She sounded dismayed. 

            "Ah…well…I won some sweepstakes, so I'm going on vacation…" 

            "And _where _exactly are you going?" Her voice was sounding a bit dangerous. 

            "Promise you won't get pissed at me?" 

            "I'll promise no such thing, not until I know where you're going. It's not somewhere I want to go, is it? Not Italy or somewhere?" Liana was taking Italian, and desperately wanted to visit Italy, but like so many was constricted by her college-student budget. 

            "Hey, Li, look who's talking," said Simon, feigning indignation. "Weren't you the one who went with Sarah to Australia last summer?" Simon had been more than slightly jealous of that trip, although he'd handled it pretty well, he thought, being civil to Liana, and cursing _after _she'd left.  

"Touché. Sorry. Tell me where you're going." 

"I'm going on a cruise…" 

"Where?!" 

"The Caribbean." 

Silence. 

Then: 

"Excuse me, I didn't hear that right. I could have sworn you said you were going to the Caribbean," Liana said at last, "but of course you said you wished you were going to the Caribbean with me, but instead you were going to Botswana. Right?" 

"Botswana? Aren't they going through a war right now? Or is that somewhere else?" 

"You need to keep up on world issues more, mister," said Liana good-naturedly. "So where did you say you were going?" 

"The Caribbean." 

"AUGH! Ce n'est pas vrai! Aaah, say it's not so! The Caribbean? Agony! How could you _do _this to me?" Much as her voice was filled with woe, Simon could tell the copious weeping over the phone was mocking and purely for entertainment, and she wasn't _that _distressed. Liana didn't get distressed very easily. She often talked like that, in that dramatic and colorful way, which was one of the things Simon liked about her so much.  

"Alas, Li, it is so," replied Simon, amused. "I do really wish you could come, but the sponsor's only sponsoring me, which _is _decidedly dismal." 

"You get to see where all the places are," said Liana mournfully. "Lucky…" 

"On the other hand," added Simon dryly, "I don't know if your obsession needs to be fueled anymore than it already is." 

"Obsessions _live _to be fueled!" declared Liana. "Always! Obsessions are the key to life!" 

"Li, I _am _going to miss you on this trip." 

"Yeah…I'm going to miss you too," Liana admitted. "A lot. But _c'est la vie…_plus," she continued in a mischievous voice, "I'll have time to do _other things…" _She laughed. "Nah, not really, although I'll turn my homework in on time more, that's for sure. You just better send me tons of postcards or I'll _kill you!" _she added as an afterthought. 

"Anything you say," replied Simon. "'Course I will. Hey, d'you want to come over sometime before I go?" 

"Yeah!" said Liana enthusiastically. "When?" 

"Well, it can't be tonight, as I have to do an evil analysis essay…how about Thursday?" 

"'K. See you then! Love you." 

"Love you too." He hung up. _I'm going to the freaking Caribbean! Yes! _

He hadn't been this excited since he got accepted into the UW. "I guess I should pack now," he told himself reluctantly, and headed into his room to dig his little-used suitcase out of the closet, a task which would be similar to skiing during an avalanche. He didn't notice the wind picking up outside, the autumn leaves skittering along the ground as the trees swayed back and forth, and the usually calm waters of the Puget Sound starting to rock the Bremerton ferry on its way north. 


	3. Obvious Signs of Something

AN: Well, here I am again, and there is naught to say except 'sorry about the pathetically short chapters'. Really, I should just bang my head into a metal post. Fortunately, I end up doing that a lot, so it all works out in the end…oh, and sorry about the relentless Soggy Seattle references: I feel kind of bad because I've been reading about the aftermath of Hurricane Isabel, and all these people's houses are now half-sunk in water. I thought I was getting wet. Sheesh. My dear old Dad and his wife the artist were in Baltimore during said catastrophe for an art show, and although where they were wasn't affected, nobody came to the art show because they were too busy going, "Gee. Well, my house is completely destroyed. Guess I better do something about that." Can't blame 'em…Oh, and in advance, readers, you _can _spend that much time reading Megatokyo. Trust me. I _know. _And last but not least, I just realized that some of you college-attending people may be like "Hey, um, how did Simon get a house when he's in college." It's a long story, involving Avery and blackmail…I'm going to try to get Avery's misadventures out on FictionPress someday, but meanwhile, take my word for it. 

Once again, many thanks to the reviewers: 

Vana E: You enjoyed it?! Really? *wipes forehead* Whew…thanks so much. Sorry about the college; that must be dismal. I'm going to try to update this quite quickly because at the moment, it's really easy…of course, that's what I'm sayin' NOW…in a few weeks when I'm stuck for a plot point…by the way, I'm flattered to get a review from someone so much more reviewed than I. Thanks! Will update! Whahahahaa! WHAHAHAAA!! Eh, sorry. ^^; 

Mythical Assassin: Yes, you are special! ^^ I'm sorry I didn't get this out soon enough. I am contrite; forgive me. …hold on, mon ami…the box is significant. It contains items that will be useful later…what these items are, you shall have to find out. *coughtellmecough* Yeah…

Tanuki Yasha: LOL! Thanks, ominousness is fun…and it actually might be deliberate ominousness on the part of—Hey, you didn't hear that. You didn't hear that…

Disclaimer:  I own nothing. I don't even own one of those Megatokyo "b4k4^2" shirts. Which is something I really, really need. Damn…

Chapter 3: 

On the morning of his departure, Simon woke up with a start. 

"Wha?" 

He blinked and glanced at his alarm clock. It read 5:15. 

"_Five-fifteen?! _What the _hell…_" _Why am I waking up at five-fifteen! That's insane! I don't have to be at the pier until, like, six…_He sat up, feeling wide awake, acutely aware that his thoughts were actually coherent, something that didn't happen much before eleven. He had no clue what this was about…Simon wasn't prone to having any sort of dreams, much less ones so bad that it woke him up at such an ungodly hour, and besides, he didn't remember _any _dreams, period. Of course, he had got the sensation that big huge freaking _waves _were crashing in his ear. That he did remember, for some reason. How strange. Because there _were _no waves on Puget Sound, it was maddeningly calm, one of the characteristics that made it one of the most annoying bodies of water on the planet. That was definitely a factor in the 'Seattle is stupid' argument he'd been trying to make to his friend in St. Paul, who insisted that it was indescribably cool. Of course, Simon could see his point; living in St. Paul, which wasn't on any sort of body of water at all—Seattle was actually pretty nice compared to a lot of other cities, because of the port thing. Still, the piers weren't as interesting as they used to be…

            Hell, why was he thinking about useless stuff like this? 

            He closed his eyes, intending to go back to sleep, but found himself completely energized. 

            _This is weird…_Shrugging, he clambered out of bed and got dressed in about 2 minutes. Another weird occurrence. Something was just _off…_He refused to make the connection to the trip. This was his only chance to get out of Seattle for a decent amount of time, and he was not going to miss it because of some stupid coincidental occurrences that meant absolutely nothing. 

            _Nothing. _

He poured some Life™ into a bowl, dumped milk on it, and proceeded to eat breakfast.   

            At five freaking fifteen in the morning. 

            _Sheesh…_

He went online afterwards for awhile, reading _Megatokyo _(something he would NEVER admit to doing) and at about ten, the phone rang. 

            "Hey, this is Simon…" 

            "Um…hi! I just wanted to ask whether the program was running?" This time it was that same uncertain female voice. 

            Simon stared at the phone. "Uh…what? Program?" 

            "The program that we—the omin—"

            There were sounds of scuffling, as if someone else was grabbing the phone. And sure enough, the next voice Simon heard was different, and very exasperated. 

            "How am I supposed to make up for what _you—_um, your program is running? Then ya better go catch it!" the voice said, almost yelling. 

            Click. 

            _I_ seriously_ need to get caller ID, _thought Simon, wondering what the hell they were talking about. 

            Determined to not associate this weird behavior with the trip, he decided to call Avery, see if they could hang out today or something. He was completely packed, and now, he realized, completely bored, with nothing to do until the evening. He dialed Avery's cell phone, as he wasn't apt to be home very often. Avery picked up on the second ring. 

            "Yo, Avery here. Who is it?" 

            "It's me." 

            "Simon!" said Avery, sounding like he was in a good mood, which made Simon a little bit nervous. "Hey, what's up? Aren't you leaving on that cruise today?" 

            "Yeah, but not until six, and get this: for some reason I woke up at friggin' five fifteen AM this morning." 

            "_AM?!" _said Avery disbelievingly. "_You?! _That's…Jesus Christ, Simon, did you drink ten liters of Pepsi at ten or something? I mean, I'm up then, but I've usually _been _up for twelve hours, so that's not really an issue…" Avery wasn't all that big on the whole 'sleep' concept…and he didn't even drink caffeine, which never ceased to amaze people. 

            "Yeah, I know. Weird, huh? Anyway, I was wondering if you wanted to hang out and stalk people at Green Lake or something. I'm so bored…" Simon knew this was an opportunity Avery could never pass up. 

            "Stalking? I am _so _there!" replied Avery, a hint of maniacal laughter in his voice. "Yeah. How about I meet you by the community center at like ten-thirty or something?" 

            "'K. Oh, and will I recognize you, or has your look changed since I last saw you?" 

            "Nah…not too much. It's green and spiked now. No more Mohawk, that got old pretty fast. I think I'll keep it this way for a while, although I may change the color. _Capiche?" _

            "Got it. See you then." 

            "Adieu, mon ami." 

            He hung up, and grinned in anticipation. Watching Avery stalk people was always an enjoyable experience. 

~*~ 

            Approximately eight hours later Simon had returned to his domicile, and was scrutinizing his luggage. Not much, really—unlike Liana, he generally packed light, so his baggage was limited to a medium-sized blue duffel bag and a backpack; the former contained clothing, the latter, other essentials such as a portable CD player and CDs, a few books, a notebook, his laptop, a flashlight—oh, and that weird metal box that came with the congratulations letter. He figured maybe it would be explained when he arrived at the pier—or he hoped so. 

            He checked over everything one more time, then switched off the lights, locked the door, and paused for a moment in front of his house, trying to remember if he'd forgotten anything. He mentally went over everything he'd wanted to bring…Nope. Grinning in anticipation, he tossed his stuff in the backseat of his car and drove off, hoping to God he'd missed rush hour on I-5. 

            No such luck. 

            Crawling along, he cursed the Seattle transportation system's incompetence. "Why don't we have goddamn rapid transit?!" he yelled into the highly polluted air.  "God!" 

            "Do not say the Lord's name in vain!" yelled a brown-haired man in a green Subaru Forrester.  

            "Christian road rage," muttered Simon. "Lovely." He swerved into the next lane, hoping it might be moving faster…alas, no such luck. In the time getting in between two exits, he had time to read the Christian guy's bumper stickers, of which there were about twenty, proclaiming things like "God is my co-pilot", "Trust Jesus", "Christ Died For Sinners", etc. etc. Being an atheist, this annoyed Simon to no end, and he was thoroughly sick of reading them by the time he finally reached the downtown exit. No doubt, if Avery had been driving, he would have yelled a plethora of blasphemous statements out the window as the highway disappeared from view. However, Simon just thought in R-rated terms and stepped on the gas, running a red light amid numerous honks as he pulled onto Denny Way. He checked his watch. _Crap! I'm going to be late! _He maneuvered his way throughout the Seattle streets, desperately searching for a street that did not forbid him to turn left. At last he gave up, provoked law-abiding drivers again, and zoomed into a parking space by the piers without looking to see where he was. Miraculously, he didn't crash into any posts. Must have been fate…

            He got out of the car, grabbed his luggage, and blinked. He'd walked around the piers dozens of times, but he'd _never _seen this one before. It was large and expansive, lit with hanging candelabras that looked amazing against the darkening sky. There was a large building, not unlike the terminal for the Bremerton and Bainbridge Island ferry although it looked much newer. He couldn't imagine how he'd missed it before—it was rather prominent. Uncomfortably he noticed that people walking by on the sidewalk didn't seem to see it. 

This was getting to be a rather obvious Situation. 

With the determined ignorance that only a Seattleite can achieve, he shook his head and decided to discount the annoyingly mysterious aspects of the pier, and the whole sweepstakes business in general. There was the huge freakin' cruise ship. He was going to go on it. NOW. "Screw this," he muttered. "I wish I knew what was going on…" 

As he walked out of the parking lot he heard an overenthusiastic female voice calling out to him. 

"Hello?! You're here for the Caribbean cruise, aren't you?!" 

He saw a rather petite woman in a fluorescent green dress waving her arms standing at the beginning of the walkway to the cruise ship. She was easy to notice, being the only person there, although Simon wished she wasn't. She was the type of person whose voice put you in mind of a Canadian goose with laryngitis singing something from 'Carmen' while getting run over by a train.  

"Um, yeah…" 

"Splendid?! Come here?!" 

He did so. 

"Hi?! My name is Marie?! Welcome?!" 

"Ah, thanks," said Simon, wincing. "Might I ask you a question?" 

"Sure?!" 

"Why aren't there any other people here?" 

All of a sudden Marie's happy, question-mark-exclamation-point attitude seemed to evaporate. "Dammit," she muttered, and then something Simon couldn't hear. Immediately after that he felt a wave of dizziness and staggered back against the railing. He shook his head to clear it and looked around. 

There were scads and scads of people, all carrying luggage, heading down the walkway onto the cruise ship. 

"What are you talking about?!" said Marie, her voice a bit strained. "Now, go and get on, you don't want to be late?! Your cabin number is on your ticket?!" 

Simon was completely baffled. "What the _hell_—"

"Have a nice vacation?!" 

Shrugging helplessly, Simon boarded the cruise ship, which he had to admit was exceedingly nice. He showed his ticket to a bored-looking man in his mid-fifties, then checked what was left of it. Cabin 9A. All right. Shouldn't be too hard to find, he thought, convienently forgetting the Caribbean Princess was roughly the size of New Jersey, or at least it was similarly easy to navigate without a map or any signs to speak of. After wandering the many hallways for twenty minutes he finally found someone who appeared to be on the staff and got some vague directions that, after another few minutes of searching, led him to his room on the Tropical Deck. He dumped his luggage on the floor and suddenly realized how early he really had gotten up this morning, after staying up until twelve. Five hours. No wonder he suddenly felt like falling over. He was going over the few options his exhausted brain could come up with: explore the cruise ship and find food, try to think through all this crazy crap that was going on, or get some extra sleep. 

Easy choice. 

Opting for choice 3, he collapsed on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. His last coherent thought was _Tomorrow all this—stuff will get sorted out, I guess. _

Wrong assumption there, pal. Definitely, wrong assumption.


	4. I Regret To Inform You

AN: Well, still alive and kicking, to some of your disappointment, although I am slightly dead from a late night on both Friday and Saturday of last weekend—I'm in a high school marching band, and due to a stupid, evil Homecoming game that went into quintuple overtime (blame it all on W. Seattle vs. Cleveland) (why do they have to have football involved in this marching band stuff anyway?) OUR game started two hours late—at 10:00, and because of certain people obsessed with the way we put our uniforms away (Oh, dear LORD! The LABEL on your HANGER is facing the wrong WAY!) I ended up getting to sleep around 2… Anyway, so this is the chapter you've all been waiting for. Or not. Who knows. Here our poor protagonist is forced to accept his Situation. And you WILL understand the whole HG Corporation thing in the next few chapters, I _promise. _Oh, and please let me know if anything is getting Mary-Sue-ish. I'm working with a very dangerous concept here, and PotC fanfictions do have a tendency towards disgusting perfection. And a warning: Here in this chapter my writing style gets even more random and wandering around, deviating from the story and taking on an…erm…odd quality. Once again, shouts at the reviewers: 

Tanuki Yasha: Glad you liked the line, unfortunately I've actually run across someone with that sort of voice. Even more unfortunately, that person is my French teacher. Dear Lord. It, um, makes it kinda hard to do the accent right. *sighs*

Mythical Assassin: WHAT?! You're in LONDON?! AAAAAH—No. I will be _mature. _I will not kill ANYone. Argh. I'm flattered! You're in London, and yet still reading this fanfiction? Egads! Feel not lame for using Internet cafés, I would too…if…I…was…going…_anywhere…_Making you crack up, eh? Happy days! Your specialness is now assured! 

Getting on with it…I'm stalling for time…

Disclaimer: Don't own PotC. Belongs to someone else, not me. I guess I own Simon, Avery, Liana, any other OCs but it's not like anyone would take them anyway. Don't own Seattle. Don't own Port Royale. Don't own the Caribbean. Don't own anything except a computer, which is most likely the Antichrist. Oh yes, and the attack chickens with samurai swords. *evil laughter*

Since Simon was asleep, he wasn't actually aware of the exact moment when his Situation became a Predicament. It would have been hard to explain at any rate, being the kind of thing that, if it were in a book, would have required a Long, Descriptive Paragraph, which are the bane of anyone who does not enjoy reading certain passages of the Lord of the Rings in which the noble Tolkien is describing the precise shade of each blade of grass, and the reason why one of the aforementioned blades is slightly lighter because of its association with Such-and-So the Fair daughter of Something son of Someone in the House of A Personage in the Blank Age. But I digress. Our protagonist was unfortunately having a particularly odd dream involving penguins riding the Monorail, and didn't notice the cataclysmic event that would significantly affect his trip. Few people did, as the event was completed at about 2:30 in the morning, when few people were awake, and of those people most were out abusing their eardrums with impossibly loud dance music in clubs with ridiculous names (Polly Esther's??) or shut up in their rooms writing dark, angsty poetry. 

Only a few were in a position to see the piers at night, wandering around or looking out the window of their condominium. Avery was doing the latter, and by chance happened to glance outside to see what looked like a gargantuan waterspout swirling like a tornado, rising into the sky, and then abruptly disappear into thin air. Of course, this didn't mean much, as Avery dismissed it as just another weird occurrence. He wasn't much for fantasy. Although, as a matter of fact, it was done by a computer. If he'd known this, he would have been more interested. But at the moment, he wasn't aware of that. Neither was Simon. Because Simon was too busy trying to get a grip on his physical existence. 

~*~

Meanwhile, at the HG Corporation: 

"It's called the Portal Effect," said an auburn-haired young woman brightly, pointing at her computer screen. "Look! See?" 

An image of a large water cyclone spiraling into a clear night sky filled a window, which said 'Ominax 4.0' at the top, apparently the name of the program. 

"No, you _idiot!" _said her coworker. "Gigi, you dummy! Where did you get _this _program? It's completely lame! I mean, _obviously _you can't use crap like this in the real world, where people can see it, and react to it. It makes people suspicious and has no point other than antagonizing the customer, which we do _not _want to do. Duh," she added as an afterthought. 

"I downloaded it off of the Internet," Gigi admitted guiltily. "But you know, it's pretty nice. They've got an Ominous Voice From Beyond feature which I was going to use later—"

"Where did you download it from?" 

"Oh, it's www.clichéfantasy.dty/downloadz/ominax4.htm." 

"It's a .dty site?!" 

"Yeah." 

"What a disgrace. This whole deity business is going to the dogs. Stupid freakin' economy." 

~*~

Morning _started _just like normal. 

"Wha?" mumbled Simon groggily, slowly opening his eyes. He could have sworn he heard the _ocean. _What the hell? Since when does the freaking Puget Sound sound like the ocean? 

Wait…

The cruise. Right. Duh. Somewhat relieved, he sat up in his bed, blinking as the world came into focus. Kind of a crappy bed, in his opinion. It felt like a slab of wood—

He looked around. 

_It was. _

What. The. Hell. 

He was sitting on a freaking slab of wood. Several slabs, actually. It rather resembled a…dock. Yeah. So he was sitting on a dock. 

            "I just got _off _the friggin' dock!" he muttered, not knowing what to make of this. "What gives, here? What the hell?" 

            Glancing around, he saw he was definitely on a dock, in a harbor or a marina or something. There were a significant amount of boats (not surprising) and the usual amount of people for such areas, strolling around and talking, arguing, etc. Not unlike the docks down at Lake Union, except, of course, they were on the sea rather than a lake. Simon was assuming it was the Caribbean, for some odd reason. Although there was really no reason to assume that, even though he'd just been dumped onto a dock by some magic portal or _whatever _the hell it happened to be, he was still in the correct area where the _Caribbean Princess _was set to sail. There was no sign of said cruise ship. And he was noticing something very off about the people who he had at first disregarded. 

            They were dressed…oddly. Historically you might say. They all looked like they stepped out of the age of George Freaking Washington. Or whenever. 1700s? 1800s? He had failed his history class in a rather dismal fashion, so he had no idea when these garments came from. However, for some reason, the style looked as if he'd _seen _it before_. _And the area, as well.  There was something about the port that seemed very…_familiar. _

In fact, it almost looked like—

            "NO freaking WAY! Oh my God! OK," said Simon in a little softer voice. "I haven't been eating right, or something. I'm delusional. There _is _a logical explanation for why I've been dumped on a dock in the middle of the Caribbean, _if _that's where it is. I'm a freaking schizophrenic, if that's the case, but there is no goddamn _way_ that I have landed in freaking Port Ro-"

            "Ahem. Sir?" 

            A curt, British voice startled him out of his rant, which was probably a good thing. Simon glanced up. Looming over him was the slightly disapproving face of a man, in about his early thirties, wearing a rather ridiculous red British navy uniform. 

            Uh-oh. 

            _This is kind of the wrong time period for this sort of thing, _thought Simon. _But it's not really that likely that I've traveled back in time. Besides, I remember Liana's friend saying that Pirates of the Caribbean was wrong, because the real Port Royale was blown up or something before the time period depicted in the costumes…therefore this has to be some elaborate joke of the HG Corporation. Thanks, guys, I really appreciate your screwed sense of humor. Can I go now? _

"What are you doing down there?" 

            "Sitting, what does it look like," replied Simon sarcastically, looking up. "Sir," he added, just in case it actually was a real, live, obsessive Navy sort. 

            "I wouldn't advise it," the 'officer' said abruptly. "You might be in the way." Simon stood up. "Might I ask what your business is here in Port Royale?" He arched an eyebrow. "You don't look like you exactly _come _from here," he added with disdain, looking Simon up and down, taking in his appearance, which, Simon admitted to himself, was out of place with all the Navy uniforms and petticoats and other obsolete items of clothing adorning the rapidly moving forms of the 'citizens' of 'Port Royale'. 

            _Let's get this over with. _"Let's disperse with the unnecessary interrogation, _sir,_" said Simon, looking the 'officer' straight in the eye. "Where is this really? Is this some sort of a joke or something? If it is—I _know _it is—it's not actually terribly funny. Now look, I don't know who you are, some HG Corporation employee, but I doubt you have a permit for time travel, so therefore we _must _be in our time and therefore, the disgustingly named cruise ship is _somewhere _in this vicinity and by _law _you should take me right back to it. _Capiche?" _

The 'officer' blinked. "I don't know what in God's name you're talking about, sir, but I assure you that in _those _outlandish clothes someone will undoubtedly become as suspicious as I already am, someone who has a higher rank than I and will prosecute you in some way, shape, or form. 

"Furthermore," he continued, "with the problems we've been having with pirates these days, you might be arrested as said type of offender and be hanged. I myself am a forgiving man, and don't like causing unnecessary paranoia, and would be perfectly happy to overlook your suspicious presence as pure coincidence, and your appearance as your misfortune. However, if you do not state your purpose in Port Royale, where you have come from, and who you are, I shall be forced to take you to my superiors. And speak English; you're obviously capable of it." 

            Simon wasn't expecting such a long reply, nor such an intelligent-sounding, and though it was somewhat interesting, despite its many words it didn't answer a singly question. Yet he was growing more and more uneasy and getting an uncomfortable sense that he was, actually, in Port Royale sometime before the twenty-first century. He had no idea how to deal with this, but even worse was that there was something nagging at him in the back of his mind that there were further problems than the ones already presented (i.e., being in the past, no way of traveling, no money, etc. etc.) and that he was missing something important about his Predicament which was growing into more of a Dilemma, and threatened to achieve Disaster status if something miraculous didn't occur soon. 

            "Um…" He thought for a moment. Maybe if he played along he'd find that it wasn't actually what he thought it was. "I'm Simon Donaghy. I'm here on vacation and I'm from Seattle." 

            The officer—he no longer was sure enough to think of the title in quotes—looked skeptical. "I have never heard of such a place. Might I ask where specifically this 'Seattle' is?" 

            "Um…America," said Simon helplessly, realizing his mistake. If indeed this was the 1800s or whatever, Seattle wouldn't be a common name here in the East Indies. "In the northwest." 

            "Is that so? Well, Mr…Donaghy, was it?" Simon nodded. "I think that perhaps you are not being quite…truthful in your explanations. I regret to inform you that I shall have to-"

            Luckily, he didn't have to inform Simon of whatever it was he was so 'reluctant' to say, because just then another ridiculously dressed Navy guy approached the first one sounding out of breath. "Thurston, we've got—to go up to the fort," he gasped, leaning against a post. "Commodore—wants us to go and—hear about some assignment. Something about—god-damned _pirates _again, I'm sure. Wish they would shove--off and go loot France. And the Commodore's still after—bloody Jack Sparrow when they know—how _likely _it is—"

He paused, taking a deep breath, and spoke again. "You've got to get up there. I don't know what the bloody hell you're doing down here, anyway. Been drinking again?" 

            "Let's just go," said Thurston shortly. "The fort?" 

            "Yes." 

            They left in a hurry, but Simon didn't even notice, as something had just clicked. Ominously, you might say, like taking off your seat belt while about to go on a fifty-foot drop on an insane roller coaster. The same phrase the second sailor had said kept replaying in his head. 

            _Bloody Jack Sparrow. _

_            WHAT?! _

_            They said…_

_            'Bloody Jack Sparrow.' _

"Holy _shit!" _he yelled, attracting many shocked and disapproving glances from surrounding _citizens of freaking Port Royale. _

            _This is impossible! We're talking fiction here! Fiction! _

However, unfortunately for Simon, 'fiction' and 'impossible' had just become obsolete terms in his currently fictional and impossible situation.


End file.
